


When darkness falls I fall with it

by tinygreyghost



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Forced Voyeurism, Gang Rape, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Necrophilia mentioned, Protective Iron Bull, Rape, Red Templars, Sexual Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 05:56:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5279309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinygreyghost/pseuds/tinygreyghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For dragon-age kink meme prompt: The bull and the inquisitor are captured and bull is chained/locked up and forced to watch while the inquisitor is raped. the inquisitor tries to keep up a strong facade but eventually breaks down and starts babbling/crying/calling for bull to save him. (http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15866.html?thread=60098810#t60098810)</p><p>I'm afraid this is possibly a little more violent than you wanted. Title from Sparky and the Deadbillies. Not beta'd but helped pass a boring day at work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When darkness falls I fall with it

Krem comes round to a splitting headache and the thickness of old blood in his broken nose. Panicked, he chokes briefly, trying to breathe, then Skinner’s face appears over his. 

“Easy,” she whispers. One of her eyes is swollen and black. There’s a crust of dried blood at her hairline. “Thank the Maker you’re okay,” she says, gripping his hand tightly in hers. 

She helps him into a sitting position and Krem gets his first look at their situation. 

He remembers the fight: band of rogue Templars preying on travelling merchants and nearby villages, and he remembers he and Skinner, and the Chief and Lavellan getting cut off from the rest of the Chargers. And he remembers being heavily outnumbered, and Bull grinning at Lavellan as raindrops dripped from his horns, and saying, “You’re going to owe me a backrub for this, kadan.”

Seems they lost the fight.

They’re in a large cell with filthy straw matting on the floor and nothing else. There are no windows to give Krem any idea of time, and the only light is the wavering glow of torchlight. Four armed guards in ragged Templars’ colours are standing just the other side of the bars. Krem wonders if they still think of themselves as Templars considering they’re living as little more than bandits now. He’s not going to invite a beating by asking a question like that; one of the erstwhile Templars has the spidery red lines on his skin that tell of using red lyrium, and those bastards have nasty tempers. 

He glances at the far end of the cell, where Bull is gripping the cell bars tight and watching something unblinkingly. His massive chest rises and falls in slow, shuddering breaths. His whole body shakes with some mute emotion. Krem starts to rise to his feet. 

“Don’t,” says Skinner, but she doesn’t try to stop him. 

As Krem draws closer, he can see what Bull’s watching.

Two Templars stand by and watch while Lavellan is savagely raped by a third. Lavellan is naked, his one arm painfully twisted up behind his back to keep him bent forward over a table as the Templar on his back grinds between his forced-apart thighs. Lavellan’s toes just barely brush the floor. His hair is a tattered dark veil covering his face. Lavellan is utterly silent, except for an occasional harsh intake of breath when the Templar grunts and screws in deeper. 

One of the other Templars, apparently waiting his turn, gathers up the silken fall of Lavellan’s hair and winds it around his hand, and, just for a moment, before the Templar ducks down to kiss Lavellan’s mouth hungrily, Krem sees Lavellan’s face. His cheeks are flushed, expression screwed up in pain, but his eyes are dry and his gaze is deadened.

The Templar’s thrusts become erratic, and he clenches his jaw and fucks into Lavellan’s body with such force the table legs shriek against the stone floor as the table judders forward. Then, at last, his hips still, and, panting for breath, the Templar smacks the curve of Lavellan’s arse and steps away. The Templar’s armour has left bright red pressure lines in Lavellan’s flesh where it’s bitten in. There’s blood smeared on the back of Lavellan’s trembling white thighs. 

Lavellan doesn’t move for a moment, then he slides backwards slowly, trying to get his feet under him. He doesn’t have time before the other Templar who’d wanted his mouth is crowding in behind him, holding his dick in his hand, and, in one rough move, shoves into him. Lavellan makes a cut off sound, high and hurt, as he’s penetrated again. He makes a feeble attempt at struggling that gets him nothing but a backhanded slap from the third Templar, who seems to have already had his turn. 

The Templar riding him presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to Lavellan’s bare shoulder. “You fight me and I’ll make it hurt worse,“ he tells him. He adjusts his grip on Lavellan’s narrow hips and hauls him backwards sharply, so his dick is forced in even deeper. Lavellan makes another of those involuntary noises, and the Templar grins, a feral flash of teeth, and says, “See? I’m just fucking you. It’s just a cock in you. You must be used to that, elven slut that you are. Apostate slut. Godless. Sinful.”

As if aroused by his own words, he grabs hold of Lavellan’s throat in his big hand, flexing his fingers meaningfully, and Lavellan is so slight, so delicately built, that the Templar can use just his grip on him there to drag Lavellan back and forth on the hardness of his cock buried in him, using Lavellan’s body as he would his own fist.

“They took his mana. He has no magic,” says Skinner, just behind Krem. He jerks around to look at her, feeling sick and furious. There is no sorrow or alarm on Skinner’s face, only bitter rage. She’s elven too. She doesn’t often talk about life in the alienage, but Krem knows her well enough to know that the nobleman with the sword will have been the last affront, not the first. 

Krem swallows shakily. He’s barely breathed through these last moments, too horrified by what he’s witnessing. 

He looks to Bull, about to try to offer some kind of comfort, and stops. 

He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what he _dares_ say. This isn’t the roaring, pissed-off ferocity of Bull when he gets hit one time too many in battle. There is nothing in Bull’s face that Krem recognises; his expression is one of burning, bloodless hatred. He’s not even convinced Bull recognises him right now. 

Bull is entirely silent and Krem doesn’t know how to reach him. 

They’ll get out. They’ll save Lavellan. They’ll kill everyone. They have to. 

Krem runs his hands over the hinges of the cell door, searching for some give, some weakness. But he knows Skinner will have already checked, and he’s aggravated but not surprised that he finds nothing. 

With a grunt of approval, the last Templar slides off of Lavellan’s back. His eyes linger covetously on the boneless, broken sprawl of Lavellan’s body. Lavellan keeps his head down, once more hiding his face beneath his black hair. The Templar palms the round cheeks of Lavellan’s arse, peels his buttocks apart to better admire his handiwork. 

Unexpectedly, Lavellan kicks back sharply, catching the Templar’s kneecap. 

“Vicious little whore,” one of the other Templars curses. He raises his hand to strike Lavellan, but before he can, a voice rings out, saying only, 

“Stop.” 

The Templar stops at once. He turns guiltily to look in the direction of another man, a man Krem had barely been aware of until now. 

He’s an older human man, in his late forties perhaps, and though Krem doesn’t know much about Templars, he recognises the faded design on the man’s surcoat as denoting a senior rank. His beard is scruffy and his mantle is ripped, but the sword he carries at his hip is well cared for. Although his expression as he studies the abused state of Lavellan seems neutral, Krem sees the glint of satisfaction in his pale eyes. 

Whether Lavellan doesn’t realise at first that the rapes are over, or whether he’s in too much pain to be able to move at once, it takes a second for Lavellan to show any signs of life. Bracing himself awkwardly on his elbow, he pushes himself up off the table. Staggers backwards on unsteady legs, but does not fall. His hand is visibly shaking as he pushes his tangled hair off of his face. There’s blood on his mouth, and, with a horrid cold feeling, Krem realises Lavellan has near bitten through his lip to keep silent. 

Once he’s sure of his feet, Lavellan lifts his head, a strained smile on his ruined mouth as he faces the Templars’ commander.

“That hurt,” he says, the faintest slur audible in his words, “but it would have hurt worse had your men possessed cocks of anything near a decent size. As it was…” Lavellan turns and spits in contempt at the feet of the three Templars. 

The Templar Commander smiles back at Lavellan. “You’ll see they did you a kindness, Inquisitor,” he says. 

Lavellan raises an eyebrow, and then mock-understanding floods his features. “Ah,” he says. “You’re a crazy man. Well, that explains so much.”

The Commander smiles again, and says, “You have a sharp tongue.”

“It matches my knife ears,” Lavellan throws back. 

The Commander studies Lavellan another long moment. Lavellan says nothing, only wavers on his feet but still does not fall.

“You have no idea how badly I have wanted to meet you,” the Commander says eventually. 

Lavellan frowns. “I’m surprised to hear it. I haven’t been hard to find. You could have come to Skyhold, rather than skulk around in the mountains, thieving and murdering and the like.”

“You could have come to Therinfal Redoubt, instead of siding with deceitful mages and leaving us to the hell of red lyrium.”

A flicker crosses Lavellan’s face, his first real hesitation. He wets his bloodied mouth, manages an insouciant shrug. “I was battling an ancient darkspawn who wished to become a god. How was I to know that the wise and disciplined men and women of the Templar Order would fall so easily to that particular temptation?”

“And why would you even care?” says the Commander mildly. “You are Dalish. An apostate mage. You follow pagan gods. You don’t recognise virtue or honour. You have no reason to care.” This third time the Commander smiles, it looks as if it hurts him. “But I will make you care.”

The Commander gestures, and before Lavellan can fight, two of the Templars seize him by the shoulders. They haul him towards the table once more, and Lavellan twists and bucks to break free, but a heavy swipe to the back of his knees knocks his legs out from under him, and the Templars toss him bodily over the table. Lavellan tries to rise but the Commander is behind him and presses him back down. His hand moves between their bodies. Lavellan’s spine snaps straight before his head falls forward, as the Commander ruthlessly fills him right up to the brim in one deep slide, buries himself deep as he can in him.

The Commander clenches his jaw then twists his hips brutally, and this time Lavellan can’t stifle an agonised cry. 

“Let me tell you about a young templar I knew,” says the Commander, his mouth close to Lavellan’s ear. He lifts his head briefly to signal to one of his Templars, who turns and leaves the room.

“Go rot in the Fade, you worthless piece of shit,” Lavellan hisses back at him. It earns him another punishing thrust. 

The Commander is unperturbed. “His name was Aeman. He was a farmer’s son. He loved the Maker and he loved Andraste. He was eighteen.” 

He settles into a hard, sharp rhythm that shocks Lavellan’s whole body, and soon Lavellan is breathing in punched out breaths and gasps, while the Commander tells his story.

“Aeman was a good, innocent boy. A faithful templar. But he had his fantasies, of course. And what he wanted most of all, Inquisitor, was an elf.”

The Commander rolls the point of one of Lavellan’s ears cruelly between his thumb and forefinger. Lavellan’s fingers curl into claws against the tabletop, his eyes screwed tightly shut.

“He wanted to lay with an elf. He was a romantic fool, and he’d read stories, and he thought your kind were the loveliest creatures in Thedas, dancing naked in the moonlight, and he could imagine nothing sweeter than to take his pleasure from an elf. An elf just like you.”

A strangled sob rips the air. Lavellan’s cheeks are wet. 

Bull growls a low, guttural sound, too low for the Templar guards to hear. 

“Fuck you,” Lavellan curses. He hisses a vicious something else in elven, his voice blurred with tears. 

The Commander puts his hand on Lavellan’s cheek and carefully, deliberately crushes his face to the tabletop, never stopping or slowing in the story or the violation. 

“For his last birthday, I took him to an elven whorehouse, told him he was free to stuff as many rabbit holes as my fifty royals would buy him. I thought he’d have run out of spunk by morning, but no.” The Commander gives that skull-like smile again, and Krem thinks maybe Lavellan was right, maybe the Commander _is_ mad. “No, Aeman fell in love with the first prostitute who tried to make a man of him. He never even undid his breeches. Silly young bastard.”

The door to the chamber opens, and Krem’s blood runs cold. 

“Poor Aeman,” says the Commander. “Never got to taste an elf.” He takes hold of Lavellan’s chin and manhandles his face up so he’s forced to look at the open door. 

And Lavellan’s eyes go wide and wild, and the sound that comes out of his mouth is one of pure terror. 

“Not until now,” says the Commander, as the massive Red Behemoth moves into the room. 

It’s taller even than Bull, still the shape of a man but barely. There’s little of its face left, just two eyes and the grisly slash of a mouth. Its breathing is a wet rasp and its eyes seem wet at first too, until Krem realises that what he sees shining is not tears but masses of tiny crystals. The remains of Templar armour are embedded in the behemoth’s disfigured flesh but between the cracks in the metal sprout wicked spikes of glittering red crystal, some as long and thick as Krem’s elbow to wrist. The behemoth moves in a shambling, shuffling gait towards the Commander and Lavellan. 

The Commander eases up off Lavellan and backs away, his mad eyes fixed on the behemoth. “See?” he crows. “Aeman still wants his elf. And you’ll let him have you, won’t you, Inquisitor? The red lyrium's left him in such pain, and it’s your fault. It’d only be fair to let him have a little pleasure.”

Keeping himself very small, Lavellan tries to slide off the table without attracting the behemoth’s attention, but his legs crumple beneath him, and he topples to the floor. The behemoth makes an odd, inquisitive noise, like grating metal, and its gaze fixes on Lavellan. 

Lavellan crawls backwards awkwardly, daring to take his eyes off the behemoth only to flash a pleading glance at the Commander. “No, don’t. Don’t let him. Please, I didn’t know. I didn’t know what was happening to you all. I didn’t know. I only went to the mages because I didn’t think you Templars would listen to me. Please...”

He’s begging now. Krem wishes he’d never lived long enough to hear it. 

“It’ll kill him,” Skinner whispers frantically. “They can’t… it’ll kill him.” 

Lavellan bumps into one of the Templars legs, who kicks him back towards the centre of the room, towards the behemoth. He throws his hand out in a useless attempt to summon magic, cries out in frustration and despair when nothing happens. 

“You can’t do this!” Krem shouts. He slams his hand against the bars. “This is wrong! This is sick!”

The Commander doesn’t even seem to hear him, though one of the guards gestures a warning with his sword, which only enrages Krem further. 

“Damn you, you bastards! You’re going to stand by and let this happen? Is this what Templars do? Fucking evil sonsofbitches!”

Bull’s grip on the bars has turned his knuckles white. His teeth are bared in a snarl and he’s breathing hard. 

“You shouldn’t play hard to get, Inquisitor,” says the Commander. “Aeman doesn’t have much patience.” He grabs Lavellan’s shoulder and drags him across the floor like he'd drag a misbehaving child, easily overcoming all Lavellan’s struggling, to throw him at the behemoth’s feet. “Look, Aeman!” he says. “Look what a pretty little elfling I’ve found for you!”

Lavellan cowers on his knees before the behemoth, unable to move, as it studies him. 

The Commander stands back, watching with perverse delight. “He’s not a gentle lover, I’m afraid. He’s no longer equipped for romance. His cock is more like a battering ram these days. That’s why I had these men open you up, get you good and wet for him. He’ll have trouble enough fitting his meat inside you, even without your slender elven build. Still, you were complaining about the size of my men, perhaps Aeman will be more to your liking.”

“Please,” says Lavellan. It’s not more than a whisper, so quiet that Krem barely hears it. “I’m sorry. Don’t let him touch me... Please…”

“But he’s in this wretched state because of you,” says the Commander in a tone of gentle rebuke. “And he _wants_ to touch you. He wants every inch of you. He found a dead elf some time ago, you know. And he raped the corpse for hours, played with its flesh in every ugly way he wanted. We tried taking it away from him and he killed two good men, so we left him to it. And there was nothing but mangled meat when he was done. And that’s what I’m going to let him do to you, Inquisitor. He’ll fuck you to death, and then keep on fucking. It’s only fair.” 

At last, the Commander drops the façade of amiability, and the insane hatred beneath is revealed in the contorted set of his features and the light in his eyes. “He’s going to tear you up inside, like the lyrium tore him up.”

The behemoth reaches for Lavellan, and Lavellan tries to scramble away, but the behemoth catches hold of his ankle and yanks him back. Lavellan screams like an animal, clawing desperately for something to hang on to as he’s trapped. With one disfigured hand that bristles with crystals, the behemoth picks Lavellan up by the throat, dangling him clear off the ground, and Lavellan scratches and kicks and writhes. The behemoth doesn’t even notice. 

Instead, it puts its mouth to Lavellan’s and Krem almost thinks it’s kissing Lavellan, right up until he sees the rivulets of blood trickling down Lavellan’s throat. It’s not kissing him, it's biting him. 

At last, it throws Lavellan back to the ground. Lavellan’s mouth is a bloody, chewed-upon mess. Despite the blood and the obvious pain he's in, Lavellan at once makes another attempt at escape, crawling away on his hand and knees. Crawling towards the cell. 

Behind him, Krem hears Skinner whispering a prayer. Crying out in frustration, Krem bangs his hands against the bars, over and over, screaming for one of the Templars to show an ounce of mercy. 

“Bull, please,” says Lavellan. “Bull… Bull…” He’s looking at Bull with huge, terrified eyes, stretching his one hand towards him, but before he can even get close to the bars, the behemoth has him. 

The behemoth is huge and it presses Lavellan down under itself easily, holds him down with its sheer mass while it splits Lavellan’s legs apart like it means to rip him in two. Its hips are moving hard and fast, fucking the air with brutal jabs. It pulls Lavellan around like a doll, clutching him close around his waist, possessive and hungry, while it jerks at its armour to free its cock. Then it bears down on Lavellan, covering his much smaller body almost completely with its bulk, and begins to force its way in.

Lavellan screams. He screams and doesn’t stop. He begs and prays, in Human and in Elvish, until the words become shrieks, and the only thing Krem can understand in it is Bull’s name. Until, horribly and suddenly, Lavellan goes silent. 

All Krem can hear is the behemoth grunting and rasping as its ruts away on top of him.

And then, without so much as a grunt, Bull wrenches the cell door off its hinges. The muscles in his shoulders and arms bunch and flex unnaturally with the effort it takes. Bull tosses the door aside, metal clanging loudly against the stone floor, and steps out of the cell. 

One of the guards, alarm written all over his face, swings his sword at Bull, and the guard is a thick, well-built man, and the blow could easily be a killing one – except Bull grabs the blade in his bare hand. He tears it from the guard’s hand, drops it, and, blood rushing freely from his hand, he heads straight towards the behemoth. 

Skinner and Krem follow him close behind. In one sweeping move, Skinner picks up the discarded sword and neatly decapitates another of the guards. Krem grabs one of the men and pounds his head against the cell until the bars rattle. He’s aware that his body hurts, and, more distantly, he’s aware of the hot spurt of a Templar’s blood on his skin as Skinner runs him through on her sword, but Krem feels oddly disjointed, as though he’s been separated from his fear and anger. He’s running on nothing but the weird sensation of breaking free of a dream. Later, he knows, he’s going to have to deal with the trauma of what he’s seen, but right now – none of it’s real.

In a moment of sick fascination, he watches Bull plunge his hand into the behemoth’s back, through flesh and metal and crystal - and Bull is fearsomely strong but never before _this_ strong – and in one powerful tug, pull out its glistening red spine. He brandishes it over his head, gore and blood running down his arm, and howls in triumph.

The behemoth wavers a moment, then sags forward over Lavellan’s still form.

Bull howls again, a noise that makes the hair on the back of Krem's neck stand up, and lunges at the Commander, taking him down in blood and gore. Krem swings around to help Skinner with the rest of the Templars. Behind him, he hears the Commander screaming, then bones crunching, and then he hears the wet thud of flesh being beaten to a pulp. 

One of the Templars comes at Krem, and Krem recognises him as one of the bastards who raped Lavellan earlier. Gritting his teeth in grim pleasure, he brings his fist back to punch the fucker square in the face, but, before he can, Bull's there. He shoulders Krem out of the way, sending him staggering against the wall. Krem straightens up, about to shout in protest at Bull, but he loses the words to speak as Bull sticks his fist in the Templar’s mouth, grips his jaw and yanks his skull nearly clean off his body.

The Templar's body drops to the ground and there's a sudden lull in the room. 

Bull is coated in blood, like he’s been dipped in it. The only weapon he’s carrying is a knife sticking out of his side. There are countless gashes up and down his arms and over his chest, and few of them look to be only superficial. Before Krem can approach him, or worry that Bull's about to turn on him or Skinner for lack of other targets, the door to the chamber crashes open with Templar reinforcements arriving. Bull turns and surges into them. He goes through them like a meat grinder, and Skinner shoots Krem a helpless look before she rushes after him, her stolen blade moving so fast it's only a flash of silver.

Krem is left alone in the blood-soaked room. Just Krem and whatever is left of Lavellan. 

He ignores the remains of the Templars Bull has massacred and concentrates on rolling the behemoth’s cadaver off of Lavellan. 

He's overjoyed to see Lavellan’s chest moving, even if the rhythm of his breathing is worryingly fast and shallow. He crouches by Lavellan’s side, smoothes away the strands of his blood-soaked hair. 

Then he sees Lavellan’s face and his breath catches in his throat. 

Lavellan’s skin is ashen with shock and bloodloss. His brutalised mouth is a dark smear of red,and though his eyes are open, his gaze is glassy; he sees nothing. 

A little frantically, Krem pats his cheek lightly. “Mahanon? Mahanon, I'm here. It's over.”

Lavellan doesn’t move. Doesn’t respond with so much as a flutter of his lashes. 

Tense with panic, Krem carefully pulls Lavellan free from the behemoth’s sprawled limbs. He winces at the amount of blood on Lavellan’s body. He has no idea what kind of medical attention he should give Lavellan. He doesn't know if there's even any kind of help left for Lavellan, save for a merciful passing. What’s been done to him is a nightmare.

As he’s fretting over how to help Lavellan, the stone walls shudder. Krem’s head jerks up. He recognises the impact of a spell, and none of the Templars would use magic. Relief makes him weak. Another blast rocks the room, and it’s not magic this time, it rumbles like explosives, like Rocky’s explosives. Krem laughs, sounding a little unhinged.

The Chargers have found them. 

“Mahanon,” Krem tries again, more urgently. “The Chargers are here. We’re rescued.” He pats Lavellan’s cheek again, fighting down hopelessness. “Please, Mahanon. Come back. Bull needs you.”

“Bull,” says Lavellan. His lips barely move as he speaks the name. He’s still staring blindly at nothing, but it’s a response.

“Yes,” Krem agrees. “Yes, Bull. Come on, I’ll help you, but we have to catch up to them. Not sure the Chief’s not going to start murdering us lot once he runs out of Templars.”

Ripping down a threadbare tapestry from the wall with which to cover Lavellan’s nakedness, Krem eases his arms under Lavellan’s frail body, apologising non-stop as Lavellan makes soft, hitched noises of breathless agony each time he’s moved. Krem gathers him into his arms and gets to his feet. He carries Lavellan from the room, moving as quickly as he can without causing Lavellan too much pain or skidding in the slick of blood on the ground, and he follows in Bull and Skinner’s wake, following bodies and body-parts. 

He tries not to look too hard, and to just concentrate on getting out, but it’s more gruesome than any battle he’s ever seen. Bull is not one for cruelty. He’s fierce, yes, but precise, efficient. The violence of what’s been done here is more akin to the malevolence of demons. Since turning from the Qun, Bull’s warned Krem more than once about the threat of madness, and Krem’s reassured him that he’ll watch out for Bull and make sure he doesn’t fall, but this is the first moment Krem’s truly understood what Bull is capable of. 

The sounds of fighting become audible, further spellcasting and explosions, and above even that, Bull’s bloodthirsty roaring. 

Krem rushes down the stone steps, sidestepping the five pieces of gory flesh into which a Templar has been torn, and hurries to the open keep door. 

The night is lit up with torches and the flames of burning stables and side-buildings, while people shout and cry out, and magic and steel spark and clash. There are Templars fighting Templars, and Chargers in the fray too, and Krem can’t figure out what’s going on. He doesn’t have long to think about it; one rogue Templar spots him, hefts his axe and starts heading his way.

Conscious that he’s unarmed and that Lavellan is barely hanging on to the threads of life, Krem backs up to buy himself time to come up with a defence. 

A white stallion thunders towards him, its steely hooves flashing, and a Knight Templar strikes down Krem’s would-be attacker. The knight is a dark-skinned, good-looking man, who smiles at Krem through the bloody streaks on his face. 

“You must be Cremisius. My name is Ser Barris. We were pursuing these cowards too when we came across your Chargers.” He glances at Lavellan, and his expression grows grim. “Is that the Inquisitor? There are healers back at camp. Allow me.” 

He reaches down to lift Lavellan onto his horse. 

An enraged cry splits the air and then Bull’s coming straight at them. He looks like a monster, like a demon. He’s cut open in so many paces he looks like he should be dead. The knife is still in his side, and several arrows stick from his shoulder, and he hasn’t even noticed. He’s not the same man who gave his eye for Krem’s life, who drinks and fucks and teases, all joviality and good heart. He’s pure violence in motion, and all he sees is one more Templar reaching for Lavellan.

He’s going to slaughter Ser Barris. 

And possibly Krem too; Krem really doesn't know anymore. 

Ser Barris’ horse, even though bred for battle, shies at the sight of Bull charging them down. Ser Barris tries to gentle the horse, raising a hand to Bull and calling, “Peace, friend! I only mean to help!”

Bull doesn’t give any sign he’s even heard him, and Ser Barris reluctantly brings up his sword to defend himself, while Krem shouts. “No, Chief, no!”

Lavellan stirs fitfully in Krem’s arms and Bull comes to an abrupt stop. 

All at once, it’s as though the demons that were possessing him are gone. Bull shudders. His shoulders slump and the hellfire in his lone eye goes dark. His hands unclench from fists. A line of blood trickles down his face, and Bull wipes it away with the back of his hand. The battle goes on around them but all Bull’s attention is on the armful of tapestry and wounded elf that Krem’s carrying.

His mouth works, and he seems momentarily to have forgotten how to speak. He wets his lips and tries again. “Alive?” is all he says, his deep voice so lost, barely daring to hope.. 

Ser Barris warily keeps watching him and Lavellan stirs again, more insistently. 

“ _Yes_ ,” says Krem. 

Bull’s sob is huge and raw and sounds like it’s cracking him open. He reaches out, takes Lavellan into his arms like he’s made of paper, buries his face in the dark mass of Lavellan’s hair. Lavellan’s small, trembling hand comes up and his shaking fingertips rest against one of Bull’s horns. 

Clutching Lavellan to his chest, Bull sinks to his knees in the mud.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm kind of writing a hurt/comforty second part, but whether that comes to pass remains to be seen.


End file.
